


Risking Our Lives

by roquentine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, No Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: He knows why he feels the fear of Sherlock’s recklessness in his bones. That’s not a mystery. It’s because if Sherlock dies, John will too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (Originally part of a single post of [Tumblr](http://roquentine19.tumblr.com/) ficlets that just got too unwieldy.)

John bounds up the stairs without looking behind him. He shoves open the door to the flat, tears off his coat, throws it at his chair, and immediately goes to the fridge. He pulls the door open so hard that everything _in_ the door shakes; he grabs a beer, and slams the door closed again. He opens the drawer containing the churchkey with equal force, pops the top off the bottle, drops the opener back in and slams the drawer home too.

He knows all the slamming is childish, and he doesn’t care, it feels _good_. He takes a long swig of his beer, staring down at the counter, his back to the living room.

He hears rather than sees Sherlock enter. He hears the removal of his coat and scarf, the careful hanging of them on the coat rack, the short walk to the desk, the retrieval of the laptop, the settling calmly onto the sofa.

The fact that Sherlock _isn’t_ slamming things almost makes him angrier.

Fine. _Fine._ If Sherlock wants to be calm, to act like everything is _fine_ , that’s his business. John is still spitting with anger and he’s going to act like _that_ , thank you very much.

John drinks the entirety of his beer standing at the kitchen counter. He drops the bottle into the recycling from a higher than necessary height, just to hear the pleasingly loud clang as it lands among the other glass in the bin.

He goes to have a shower, frustrated that the bathroom door is slightly ill-fitting to its frame, and therefore can’t be slammed in any kind of satisfying manner.

As he stands under the hot water, he tries for the millionth time to accept that this is never, ever going to change. This habit of Sherlock’s, _risking your life to prove you’re clever (because you’re an idiot)_ , has not abated one degree since the night after they met. It scared him badly enough then, back when John had known him for only 36 hours, back when John had _killed_ for him after only 36 hours.

Now, after all this time, now that they are finally together, now that they are _one_ , it terrifies him like nothing in the war ever did. And when each crisis is over and Sherlock is safe again, the terror dissolves into relief. For an instant. Then it swirls up, inexorably, into anger.

And this stupid shower isn’t going to dissolve it back down again.

John towels off, rubs his hair as dry as he can be bothered to, slips into boxers and an old t-shirt and climbs into bed. He tries to read for a while, but can’t focus on the words on the page. (Thankfully, it’s a hardback, so when he gives up he can both slam it closed and slam it onto the bedside table.) He turns the light out and settles on his side, facing the outside of the bed.

He’s still awake when Sherlock comes in, and he closes his eyes in shameless avoidance. He listens as Sherlock gets undressed, washes up, turns out the light, and climbs quietly into bed, also curling on his side, also facing away from John.

That thing about not letting the sun go down on your anger? Fuck that. They fall asleep.

* * * * *

Some time later, John drifts awake to the feeling of Sherlock’s nails drawing a slow, smooth line through his t-shirt, up and down his spine. This is one of his favorite sensations, and he arches his back into it, just for a moment, until he wakes up enough to remember what had happened earlier, and the anger floods back into his body almost before he is consciously aware of it.

Sherlock stills his movement for a second, having sensed the tension suddenly appearing in John’s muscles, but then continues, up, then down, then back up again. On the next slide down, he curls his hand under the hem of John’s shirt, and draws his nails along the bare skin, up and down once more over his spine.

Then, his hand moves slowly over John’s waist.

Quite suddenly, John grabs Sherlock’s wrist and flips toward him, shoving him away so he’s forced to roll onto his back. John throws a leg over Sherlock’s waist and hauls himself up to a sitting position.

He stares down at Sherlock for a moment, his eyes burning in the dark, his breath exhaling forcefully through his nose. Sherlock has the nerve not to look remotely apologetic, but instead glares back at John, daring, aggressive, almost _taunting_.

One of Sherlock’s eyebrows goes up, ever so slightly.

John moves in the blink of an eye, roughly grabbing Sherlock’s head and bringing his mouth up to meet his own.

Their kiss is a mess for a second, neither one of them willing to yield a centimeter in the first round of battle. They finally slot their mouths together in a silent mutual concession, and Sherlock tries to take control, working his jaw as hard as he can, shoving his tongue in John’s mouth. John, however, has the advantage of position, and uses it to maneuver Sherlock’s head to whatever angle he wants. Sherlock’s hands come up to John’s arms and settle into the crooks of his elbows, trying to yank them free, but John only tightens his grip on Sherlock’s skull, and increases the pressure on his mouth.

So Sherlock moves his hands to John’s waist and pulls down as he thrusts up his hips, grinding their erections together.

John is forced to break the kiss in order to gasp in a breath. _Fine_. He doesn’t exactly _slam_ Sherlock’s head back into the pillow, but he doesn’t simply let go, either.

He slides down Sherlock’s body, grabbing the waistband of his shorts as he moves, and pulls them off as Sherlock kicks out of them. Sherlock hitches up onto his elbows to watch as John removes his own shirt and pants, then kneels back onto the edge of the bed and takes Sherlock into his mouth.

There’s no build up, no teasing, no soft kisses over his belly or a light tongue across his hipbone. Not _tonight_. It’s hard and fast and all at once, shoving down until he feels the head bump the back of his throat, his fist wrapping around to cover the rest of Sherlock’s length, sucking hard as he pulls up, then pushing down again, over and over in a rhythm that’s just a little too fast, a little too harsh.

Sherlock falls down from his elbows as his chin stretches toward the ceiling. His hands fist the sheets as he fights not to move, not to engage, not to give in. Eventually, though, almost without realizing he’s doing it, one hand drifts blindly to John’s hair.

Almost instantaneously, John shoves his arm aside.

The quick, purposeful motion brings Sherlock back to his elbows and John looks up. His eyes are shooting daggers, and he adjusts his pace from too fast to achingly, maddeningly slow. He doesn’t break eye contact as he pulls off and makes one long, wet, _obscene_ lick up the underside of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock has to work at keeping his eyes open and his breathing even. When John finally breaks their stare and closes his mouth around the shaft once again, Sherlock’s head tips back momentarily and he swallows the moan threatening to escape from his throat.

He lifts his head back up to watch John continue to move down and up at his new, horribly slow pace, once, twice, a third time.

But then, on John’s next downward motion, Sherlock suddenly moves a hand to the back of John’s head and _shoves_ him down, thrusting hard into the back of his throat, and holding him there, just for a split second.

John gags, his eyes watering instantly. He pulls off and coughs a couple of times, then works to catch his breath. He glances up at Sherlock almost in disbelief as the back of his hand wipes at his eyes and mouth, and his eyes catch fire when he sees Sherlock’s remorseless, provocative gaze staring back.

Watching John recover from his admittedly wretched trick, Sherlock’s mouth drifts into a self-satisfied smirk. Then, slowly, deliberately, maintaining eye contact as long as he is able, Sherlock rotates over until he’s on all fours. He arches his back, sinks to his elbows, and peers around at John again, his mouth still curved into a challenge, his eyes alight with anticipation.

John roughly pushes Sherlock down to the mattress, out of his way, as he leans over him to reach the bedside table. He’s had a lot of practice slamming drawers open and shut tonight, and in no time he retrieves the bottle of lube and slicks up his hand. He pulls Sherlock back up to his knees and slides one finger inside without a lot of finesse, then slides in a second. He thrusts his fingers just a couple of times, quick and shallow, then adds more slick to his cock and buries himself, much too fast and all the way, in one powerful thrust.

He takes a moment to savor the tight, unprepared heat, as well as the quiet but unmistakable groan that he has finally been able to wring out of Sherlock. He pulls back and slams forward again, and again, until he notices that Sherlock has recovered his ability to stay quiet, and has also started shoving back with nearly equal force to meet him.

So John falls forward over Sherlock’s back, in an effort to counter, to gain the advantage, to maintain the illusion than he is the one in charge, that he ever could _control_ Sherlock. The anger surges back, because he knows it’s a lie.

Even right now, he’s fucking into Sherlock because Sherlock more or less demanded it.

* * * * *

He always knows when John is close. Sherlock brings his left hand up and grips the top of the headboard, providing better leverage against John’s thrusts. His spits into his right, graceless and desperate, and starts to work at his cock, trying to keep some kind of rhythm while John pounds into him.

John straightens back up, and his pace gets more frenetic and uneven. He grips Sherlock’s hip with one hand while the other threads up the back of Sherlock’s neck, closes tightly around unruly curls, and yanks his head up. With his throat extended, Sherlock can’t hide the grunted exhales matching John’s thrusts, and the raw, shameless sounds send John careening mindlessly over the edge.

He falls forward, his orgasm ripping through his body, bundled with the adrenaline and fear and anger that had coursed through him for the better part of the day. The hand that was on Sherlock’s head now wraps around his torso, the hand from his hip moves to cover Sherlock’s on the headboard. John gives in to two or three more deep thrusts as he spills himself into Sherlock, shuddering and mouthing at his shoulder, moaning into Sherlock’s sweat-soaked skin.

Sherlock throws his head back, his grunts devolving into whines as his fist moves with urgent intensity around his cock. John tightens his grip around Sherlock’s middle and runs his tongue along the shell of his ear, sucking it into his mouth, biting at the flesh until at last he feels Sherlock go still for a brief second and then shudder underneath him. Sherlock comes with a breathless shout, spilling into his own hand, his muscles spasming around John, still buried deep inside.

They stay like that, just existing together, as they do, for a long moment.

Finally John peels himself from Sherlock’s back, withdraws as gently as he can, and collapses onto his side. Sherlock slowly lets his knees slide out from under him, but stays up on his elbows for a minute as he recovers, his head bowed, his breathing labored. He leans off the bed and cleans his hand on whatever piece of clothing he finds, then sinks down into the pillow, his eyes toward John, open but unfocused.

John is still catching his breath, looking back at Sherlock with an unreadable expression. Sherlock blinks slowly a couple of times, then tentatively lifts a hand to the back of John’s neck. John doesn’t react.

Sherlock’s grip is light as he shifts toward John. He breathes deeply, and lets his eyes fall closed, and, somewhat unexpectedly, settles his forehead against John’s mouth.

John instinctively forms his lips into a kiss, then lifts his own hand to Sherlock’s neck and pulls him tighter into it. He kisses him once, then a second time, holding it there as long as he needs to, tasting the salty skin, smoothing the wild curls at the back of Sherlock’s head. He squeezes his own eyes shut against a rush of emotion he’s not feeling particularly equipped to deal with just at the moment.

* * * * *

He knows why he feels the fear of Sherlock’s recklessness in his bones. That’s not a mystery. It’s because if Sherlock dies, John will too. It’s not a question, it’s a simple corollary certainty. John has already (barely) lived through Sherlock’s death once. And that was before they were _this._ The idea that he would ever survive it a second time, whether it happened today or fifty years from now, is utterly incomprehensible.

* * * * *

Eventually Sherlock lets go and moves back, tucking his hand under his pillow, blinking at John again, exhaustion clearly looming behind his eyes. John lets his own hand linger on Sherlock’s neck, then moves to stroke his cheek. When he knows he can bear to let go, he pulls it back to his chest.

They haven’t said a word since they got home. They don’t need to, not quite yet.

For now, they fall asleep facing each other.

For tonight, that’s enough.


End file.
